


The Five Times Enjolras Was Oblivious (And the One Time He Wasn't)

by ecrituredelafangirl



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: And angst, Courf introduced them, Enjolras finally meets Enjolras's Feelings, Enjolras is a very interesting caregiver, Enjolras is hurt, Enjolras is not oblivious, Fluff, Grantaire Has Self-Esteem Issues, M/M, Now Grantaire is the caregiver, Pining, Pining Enjolras, Piningjolras, SO MUCH FLUFF, Sickfic, There is pining that is not identified as pining, They're really hitting it off, but it's short lived I promise, everything turns out okay, woot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-23 05:01:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/922291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ecrituredelafangirl/pseuds/ecrituredelafangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras wasn’t <i>oblivious</i>. He <i>wasn’t</i>.</p><p>He just sometimes fails to notice Grantaire and the things that happen when he and Grantaire are together. </p><p>(Or A Progression in Enjolrasian Feelings)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Enjolras wasn’t _oblivious_. He _wasn’t_. If some things managed to slip his notice, that wasn’t his fault. He was a focused man, a very focused man, and he didn’t have time to really look at things sometimes. Art, nature, _people_ , Enjolras didn’t _look_ at these things, didn’t truly care how they looked. That’s why it surprised him, that first time he heard it. 

Enjolras liked Grantaire, he really, really did. The man was a bit of an ass, but he was brilliant and talented and _frustrating_. Sometimes Enjolras hated him…but he liked him. Liked conversing with him. Even if most of their conversations ended in someone shouting and then leaving the Musian in tense silence. But these things were easily gotten over, Enjolras’s ego nursed back to health by an unsympathetic Combeferre, and Grantaire probably drinking until he forgot all about it. 

But that night was different. That night they were still conversing as they stepped out of the Musain, wrapped in scarves and coats to face the frozen night. That night he was walking next to, walking with Grantaire, speaking with passion while Grantaire answered him blandly, his answers concise, but presented with nothing akin to fervor. And it frustrated Enjolras, somewhat, and thus he only tried harder, his arguments suddenly purely meant for convincing _Grantaire_. Well, at least when they were alone. 

And they were nearing Grantaire’s building when the voice rang out – someone across the street shouting strident words. And Grantaire froze, stopping in his tracks. And Enjolras turned, his brow furrowing, watching the boy across the street dart into an alley, his laughter echoing in the night air. 

Grantaire’s face was white. And all Enjolras could think to say was “What did he say?” But Grantaire didn’t answer him, just flashed him a dark, embarrassed look before brushing past him. 

Enjolras ignored the pang of concern that flamed in his chest, but followed him anyway. 

Grantaire only saw him, shadowing him, when stopped to unlock his door. 

“What are you doing?” he asked. And he sounded tired, exasperated. His face looked drawn. Enjolras put his hands in his pockets and shrugged. 

“We were talking. It was an interesting discussion. I wish to continue it,” he said slowly, by way of explanation. Grantaire shared a dark look with his door before opening it and permitting Enjolras to follow him inside. 

It was a nice apartment, but small, with the living space playing host to both a small kitchenette and a large bed. There were two doors leading off the room, one open just far enough for Enjolras to make out a cluttered, but surprisingly clean bathroom. The other door was shut tightly. 

“Is that a bedroom?” Enjolras asked, nodding. Grantaire gazed at him, his eyes empty, as he saw what he was indicating. 

“So says my landlady,” was his answer. And his tone was dull. Enjolras glanced at him, eyes ghosting over familiar features. 

“Are you okay?” he pronounced, hearing the concern in his own voice. And Grantaire waved him off without looking at him. Enjolras didn’t notice that his eyes were glassy, nor did he hear the nearly concealed tremor in Grantaire’s voice when he asked if Enjolras wanted anything to drink. He only spared a single moment’s thought when Grantaire went to the bathroom instead of the kitchen after Enjolras answered that water would be welcome. 

And Enjolras wasn’t _oblivious_ , he was merely focusing on the thread of his and Grantaire’s previous conversation – something that had evolved from a discussion of the woman’s lot in ancient myth to modern woman’s rights, feminism. He was mulling over several things that Grantaire had said, points he had made that, while being contrary to Enjolras’ own beliefs, were extraordinarily helpful (Enjolras had become used to conceding on that point) in solidifying his arguments. He hadn’t been lying when he told Grantaire he wanted to continue their conversation. That was just a slightly difficult thing to do when his friend had locked himself in the bathroom. 

Grantaire cleared his throat as he came back into the room. Enjolras saw without _seeing_ the redness rimming Grantaire’s eyes, the puffiness underlining them. Grantaire bustled past his bed and to the kitchenette. “Do you care if we switch gears just a bit, Apollo? I want your opinion.” 

Enjolras didn’t even have time to conceal his irritation before Grantaire was plowing on, holding a glass under the running water of the tap. 

“Conventional beauty. The fact that such stock is set by it. How it makes both men and women feel less than they are because they just don’t happen to match up to some magic standard that doesn’t even fucking exist.” There was something of anger in Grantaire’s tone and Enjolras was surprised, used to the dry, generally mocking tone of his usual counterarguments. 

“Conventional beauty doesn’t exist – ” was Enjolras’ first response. At the flash in Grantaire’s eyes, he knew he had spoken amiss, at least on some level. 

“Don’t even try to kid yourself out of this one, Enjolras. Just because it doesn’t fucking affect you because you happened to be born so with the face of something fucking divine – ”

“Doesn’t affect me, Grantaire? I look nothing like society says a man should look,” Enjolras replied calmly, effectively halting Grantaire’s argument. “I’ve just learned not to care. And you didn’t let me finish before – conventional beauty doesn’t exist but for in our minds. It’s a learned instinct for humanity to have a common standard for beauty, and it is because we live in such a commercial age that such an instinct has festered to this level of utter pestilence that damages nearly all of the human population.

“I personally believe that physical appearance doesn’t matter. But such words mean nothing without practice, yes? Any such person can say that they set no stock by how someone looks, but for most it’s a hard-wired, well-ingrained _instinct_. That’s why ‘attractive’ people have cast better lots in society. And it’s endlessly frustrating – I pass newsstands and want to rip apart the magazines there. I have, on occasion. But I have come to the long-suffering realization that something so _ingrained_ as this can’t be changed overnight. It’s something to work towards, something that we _will_ work towards. Something we will achieve.”

Grantaire had shut off the tap and was now staring into the sink, his hands spread on the counter on either side. He had long fingers, Enjolras saw, long and delicately boned, meant for gentle work. Like holding a paintbrush…or running fingers over a cheekbone. 

“No rebuttal?” Enjolras questioned. And Grantaire glanced at him. 

“I…agree with you,” he said slowly. “Although, as always, your idealism disappoints.” He cocked an eyebrow, his tone indicating anything but disappointment. 

“No surprise there,” Enjolras said quietly, raising his eyebrow to mirror Grantaire’s. And then silence fell between them, languid, as though some tension Enjolras hadn’t realized had been released. 

“You know… We’re the two most unconventional looking of our friends,” Enjolras mused several moments later, and Grantaire’s eyes were on him in a flash, sharp once more. “I mean… I look like a teenaged girl. And you… I guess… I dunno – nothing seems to go together on your face,” and Enjolras missed the way Grantaire’s nostrils flared, the way his eyes dropped dejectedly back to the countertop, “and somehow it works.” 

“What?” and the word sounded choked. Enjolras pursed his lips, slightly, in thought. 

“Well. I mean… There’s just something about your face. Everything about it looks at odds. But it’s refreshing, you know.” In an uncharacteristic show of uncertainty, Enjolras’s fingers began toying with the frayed edge of Grantaire’s comforter. And suddenly his voice dropped, just a bit: “I like it.”

And even if Enjolras missed the small smile that flared to life on Grantaire’s face as he inquired as to whether Enjolras still wanted a glass of water, it managed not to pass his notice how very well the expression suited him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do you do with a sick Grantaire? Enjolras just doesn't know.

When Grantaire didn’t come to the meeting next week, Enjolras was worried. When he didn’t come the week _after_ that, Enjolras was compartmentalizing his worry so that it didn’t cloud his judgment. Because, dear Lord, _what the hell was this?_ He felt slightly unsteady. He kept working, though, both because he needed to and because it kept his thoughts out of that part of his mind where he felt Grantaire’s absence like a rawness to his skin. ( _What the hell is this?_ ) He hated it. 

And although Enjolras wasn’t oblivious, he didn’t notice the fact that none of his friends were worried. He barely connected them to his present inner turmoil, instead trying to make sense of it completely on his own (or ignoring it all together; much more likely, considering it was _Enjolras_ ). He didn’t think that, perhaps, their lack of worry was in fact based upon the fact that Grantaire had contacted them, ensuring them that he was fine, just a little under the weather. And that such contact had earned him a visit from Joly and two from Combeferre. 

Enjolras didn’t think about these things. Enjolras didn’t know. So, instead, he worried – worried until his mind was so muddled he couldn’t push it down anymore, couldn’t distract himself. And that was when Combeferre prompted him, saying that maybe he should go _see_ Grantaire. 

And that was all it took for Enjolras to be up and out of their apartment, walking briskly downtown. It took him less than ten minutes to arrive at Grantaire’s door. He knocked, and then suddenly Grantaire was there, in the doorway, looking an absolute fucking _mess_. And suddenly Enjolras felt some kind of overwhelming _relief_ , followed by a profound sense of _bewilderment_. And Grantaire looked at him as though he was from Mars. 

“ _Enjolras?_ ” he pronounced, carefully, nasally. And Enjolras bustled his way inside, suddenly aware of the cold air he was bringing in. 

“Yes?” he asked, once Grantaire had closed the door. His hair was matted and sticking up everywhere, all over his head. His eyes were glassy, red. His voice was hoarse. His nose was shiny, red. Enjolras didn’t see any of it, but he looked over Grantaire as a whole and knew that something was _off_. “Combeferre said you were sick?” 

Grantaire was still looking at him, slightly wide-eyed. “Well, he wasn’t wrong,” Enjolras thought he tried to say, but he was taken by a sudden fit of coughing in the middle and never finished. And Enjolras wanted to cringe, watching Grantaire’s body heave with his violent coughing fit. But then Grantaire suddenly cut off, collapsing onto his bed with a groan. 

“O,” Enjolras said softly. And he didn’t know what to do with his hands, his mind suddenly assaulting him with a million possibilities. He wasn’t great with sick people, but he knew the basics of how to care for them. He just wasn’t sure what to do _first_.

“Jesus Christ, I haven’t felt this bad in,” Grantaire said, his voice barely there. “You know, Apollo, I don’t think I’ve ever felt this bad.” 

“Have you eaten today?” Enjolras felt himself asking. Grantaire didn’t even try to sit up, didn’t even fix him with a look. 

“My throat feels like lava,” he said, all gravel and growl and rasp. “No.” 

“Soup,” was Enjolras’s only reply. And then he was out the door again, on the street. And Grantaire was left with the most baffled expression on his face. 

The expression was not finished before Enjolras had returned. 

When Grantaire raised an eyebrow in question, Enjolras merely held up a plastic shopping bag. “Soup,” he said, “and tea.”

“You don’t have to take care of me,” Grantaire managed to choke out, even as Enjolras held up a hand to silence him. 

“I’d actually much prefer Combeferre was here-”

“Combeferre _has_ ,” cough, “been here. He said I was fine to take care of myself.” 

“The fact that you haven’t been to two meetings in a row indicates that you haven’t been doing a good job,” Enjolras replied. He didn’t truly take notice when silence fell after that, just continued into the kitchen and began rummaging to find a bowl or _something_. 

“You noticed?” Grantaire asked when Enjolras returned, carrying take-out soup in a mug. (Grantaire seemed to have only coffee receptacles hidden in his cabinets, not a plate or bowl in sight.)

“Noticed what?” Enjolras said blankly, watching as Grantaire took a swallow – cringing when it burned at his raw throat. 

“I wasn’t there,” Grantaire said. And he didn’t meet Enjolras’s eyes, focusing instead on the soup he was meant to ingest. 

“Of course I noticed,” Enjolras said, looking slightly affronted at the fact that he had thought that he _wouldn’t_. “Everything is much more _quiet_ when you’re not there. It’s rather disconcerting.”

Grantaire even managed a bit of a smile at that, before cringing again as he took another sip of soup. And then there was a sharp intake of breath as Enjolras’s hand was suddenly pushing his hair back, resting on his forehead. 

“You have a fever,” he murmured. And Grantaire met his eyes as he pulled his hand away. “I assume you don’t have anything…”

“Drugs are for the weak,” Grantaire coughed weakly. 

“I’m calling Combeferre to get you some anyway,” he replied. And then he was off before Grantaire could protest, accessing his first speed-dial and _dialing_. Combeferre, as always, picked up right after the second ring. 

“What does he need?” was all he said, and Enjolras was grateful. Even with Courfeyrac blasting some obscene pop mix in the background, he was grateful. Because Enjolras loved Combeferre and his uncanny ability to read everyone else’s minds. 

“Whatever you’d prescribe to treat this type of thing,” he said, lowly, before turning around to make sure Grantaire wasn’t choking on his soup. 

“That’s fine. Do you want me to have Joly write up a scrip for zythromax?” he asked, in full-on caregiver mode. 

“Azytho-what?” Enjolras asked. Grantaire raised an eyebrow at him. 

“You know, never mind. I’ve got this. I’ll be over in half an hour,” he said. And then he hung up before Enjolras could thank him. 

“Have you ever considered the fact that your best friend is an angel or some shit?” Grantaire asked. He leaned back and put the empty soup mug on his bedside table. Enjolras smiled a bit. He didn’t really know why. 

“I have,” Enjolras said. And Grantaire watched him as he came into the living area, sitting on the bed next to him. 

“You have fucking awesome friends, Apollo,” he said. 

“They’re _our_ friends, Grantaire,” Enjolras said, almost as though it were a reflex. Then he missed the way that seven emotions proceeded to play out on Grantaire’s face. Surprise, disbelief, happiness, several stages of each, before settling on something that could only be described as _contentment_. Well, before he coughed again. 

“How long have you been like this?” Enjolras asked, his tone expressing disapproval. Grantaire made a face at him. 

“A couple of days,” he answered. When Enjolras obviously didn’t believe him, he sighed. 

“Look, Apollo. I missed the first meeting ‘cause of a family emergency,” he said quietly. “I caught the cold down in Provence.” 

Enjolras sat back a bit. “You’re from Provence?” And he wasn’t sure, at that moment, if he was oblivious or not. Because Grantaire’s accent should have, surely, been indication enough. 

“Mhm…” Grantaire replied. He registered the expression on Enjolras’s face with furrowed brows. “Why?”

“It’s just,” and then the door opened, “I am too.”

Combeferre was in the apartment then, placing bottles of pills on the counter. He glanced at them on the bed and smiled just a bit to himself. Enjolras didn’t see it though, slightly enthralled as he was in the slight blush overtaking Grantaire’s face. 

“All right, invalid. There are three bottles here – you take this one…well, actually, the instructions are on the bottle. And last time I checked, you could read, so…” and then he gave Grantaire a sympathetic smile. “You’re all right, then?” 

Grantaire raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m fine, ‘Ferre.”

“You have _Enjolras_ worried,” Combeferre said, gesturing. 

Grantaire shrugged. “Enjolras is weird with the emotions thing, you know that.” 

Combeferre removed his glasses, cleaning them on his shirt hem. “Well, yes. But he’s giving every indication of wanting to stay until you’re better. And you know when Enjolras wants something, he doesn’t give up.” 

Grantaire closed his eyes. Combeferre raised his eyebrows. Enjolras sat, unsure as to whether he should be insulted or…something else. 

“I’m staying the night here,” he said. And he watched as Combeferre and Grantaire shared what he could only describe as a _look_. And now he was insulted. Although, he still didn’t know what to do with that, honestly. Words were failing him at this moment and it was _frustrating_.

“Yes, darling, of course,” Combeferre said, sighing. Then he came around, into the living area, and dropped a gentle kiss onto Enjolras’s forehead. “Just don’t kill the patient.” 

“I won’t,” Enjolras grumbled. And Combeferre shot him an absolutely blinding grin before heading out, only popping back in to look at Grantaire, “And I hope you feel better, _mon ami_. And preferably before Jehan coerces us into some kind of prayer circle. Or Bossuet and Joly convince Courfeyrac that some kind of Native American ritual will return your health to you. You don’t want an enthusiastic Courfeyrac over here trying to spoon feed you some sort of venison broth infused with tree bark…”

“Will do, Doctor,” Grantaire said, giving some kind of mock salute, at which Combeferre smiled, all good-nature and white teeth. And Grantaire smiled back, just a bit, before Combeferre slipped out, closing the door behind him. 

“We have awesome friends,” Grantaire said softly, moments later. And Enjolras gave a small smile as he went to gather pills and make tea. 

When he returned, Grantaire had turned on the television, was absorbed in some ridiculous sitcom. Enjolras forced the pills and tea upon him, watching as he swallowed (still obviously painful, but perhaps less so), and then swallowed again, until the tea was gone. Then Enjolras slid up, into bed next to Grantaire, letting him lean into his side, making sure he was bundled in blankets. And if Grantaire fell asleep twenty minutes later, his head pillowed in Enjolras’s lap, an arm thrown over Enjolras’s legs… Well, Enjolras would have had to be oblivious to say he didn’t smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire takes about three days to get satisfyingly better. Until then, Enjolras hovers. And is slightly baffled by the fact that he feels the need to hover. But then social justice calls and he's off, throwing himself back into the game, only now giving Grantaire slightly longer (Jehan would say _lingering_ ) looks. Everyone picks up on it, really, but Grantaire. 
> 
> Questions/comments go below or at my tumblr: http://ecriture-de-la-fangirl.tumblr.com
> 
> I hope you enjoyed and that you have a wonderful night!! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do you do with a hurt Enjolras? Grantaire wishes he knew. What do you do with a confused Enjolras? Dammit, neither of them knows. That's what Combeferre and Courfeyrac are for... Unfortunately they are unavailable until Chapter 4...

There was a rally. The next month, there was a rally. Enjolras was hyped up on adrenaline, thrilled. He was going to be making a speech (of course) and, evidently, this was big, this was _very, very big_. And he was so excited (and _stressed_ ) that he felt like he would shake out of his skin. He was like a kid on a sugar high the entire week preceding the event, practicing his speech until the words seemed strange in his mouth. 

And then the event was upon them. And waiting for Combeferre to pick him up was _agony_. 

But, finally, they were there. They were at the rally, Combeferre smiling at his ridiculous behavior, and he was pushed to the front, given the attention. 

And he spoke. And he could have sworn the world was still. 

But then, he was finished. And not even the thundering of his heart in his ears could blot out the sound of commotion. Something was wrong. 

Enjolras looked around, found Combeferre distracted, yelling, veins throbbing in his neck, his temple, Courfeyrac pushed down, on the ground, looking dazed, and Grantaire, looking at him, his expression nothing short of _terrified_. 

And then something hit him, and pain, _excruciating pain_ , sparked from the top of his head down, down his spine. And then everything was black. 

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

“ _Is he going to be okay? I don’t care about that – I just-tell me if he’s going to be okay. Please!_ ” 

That voice… He knew that voice. It was all he could hear, and he _knew_ that voice. 

“ _He’s moving. ‘Ferre, he’s moving. Should he be doing that? Is that all right?_ ”

Who… Who was that? There was a warmth in his chest. He liked that voice. 

“ _Enjolras?_ ” And he opened his eyes. And the eyes that looked back at him…were the most surprising color. It was so _pretty_. 

“Your eyes are so pretty,” he said quietly. And there was something warm and soft beneath his fingertips. Skin?

“Enjolras.” The voice from before, it sounded relieved. And Enjolras, smiled, glad that it felt better. “He _is_ okay?”

And then another voice spoke, sounding far away. “He’s just…out of it. They want to take him to the hospital, to check him out-”

“I’m going with him.” And that voice, that _beautiful_ voice, sounded distressed again. And Enjolras couldn’t keep himself from muttering a litany of negatives. That voice should be _happy_. 

“Enjolras?” and the voice sounded…wounded. And then there was a hand on his face, prying his eyes open with firm fingers. Funny… He didn’t remember closing his eyes. 

“Enjolras, can you hear me?” the far away voice was now so, so close. _Combeferre_. 

“Combeferre?” he said slowly. Even he could hear the slurring in his words. 

“Enjolras,” and Combeferre sounded relieved. 

“He’s okay?” the voice was back, the voice that made his chest warm. 

“I think he will be,” Combeferre said quietly. 

“Sir, we’re going to take him in now,” a strident voice, all steel and unfamiliar. And then he was moving, and he didn’t like it, but he didn’t seem to have a choice. He liked that even _less_ , but then there was a hand near his, brushing against his. And without being completely conscious of it, he turned his hand and gripped it, twining fingers, clinging. 

And then the world was spinning. And then there was darkness again. 

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

It was a steady beeping. It was annoying. The air was cool on his skin, but his hand was warm. He opened his eyes. 

And his head hurt, but he needed to be awake now. Jesus, how long ago was the rally? How much had he missed? How long had he been out?

And then he turned his head. And there was Grantaire, snoring softly, contorted and sitting in what looked like an extraordinarily uncomfortable plastic hospital chair. His hand was clasped, even in sleep, within the cage of Enjolras’s fingers. Without completely realizing it, Enjolras tightened his hold. 

Grantaire blinked, his eyes unfocused, until he found Enjolras. Then he stopped. He smiled gently, his warring features coming to peace in a single expression. 

And Enjolras suddenly felt warm all over. And it was _baffling_.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, bluntly, his voice struggling to catch up with his mind. He closed his eyes for a moment in exasperation. 

“D’you want me to leave? I’m sorry-” Grantaire spoke. And Enjolras tried to shake his head, hissed when dull pain jerked through him.

“No, stop,” he managed to grind out through clenched teeth. And then he waited several breaths for the pain to subside. “I was just…” he opened his eyes. “You stayed?” 

“You kind of grabbed my hand and dragged me to the ambulance,” Grantaire shrugged. “Even concussed, you have a _strong_ grip.” 

“But… You didn’t have to _stay_ ,” Enjolras said. And he knew he wasn’t getting his point across (if he was being completely honest with himself, he wasn’t even sure what his point was) and it was _frustrating him_. 

Grantaire shrugged. “It’s only been a couple of hours. I didn’t have anywhere to be,” he said. And Enjolras closed his eyes again, breathing slowly, in and out. 

“Thank you,” he said, eventually. 

And his eyes were closed against Grantaire’s expression – something between terrible fear, loyalty, and fierce, incredible _love_. But he felt the way his thumb stuttered, unsure, as it stroked across the back of Enjolras’s hand. And, when he returned the gesture, he tried and failed not to do the same. 

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

“This is a fucking huge apartment, Apollo,” Grantaire grumbled as soon as the door opened. Enjolras threw him a look over his shoulder. 

“You didn’t have to drive me home,” he said. And then it was Grantaire’s turn to give the look. 

“Well, I wasn’t going to let you take the bus,” he said lowly. And Enjolras didn’t understand why that made him feel light in his chest, almost as though he were flying. He turned back to the span of windows on the far wall and smiled, small and all to himself. 

Grantaire sighed from behind him. “Well, I guess I’ll…see you around,” he began. Enjolras cut him off. 

“D’you want a cup of coffee?” he asked, his voice sharp in its suddenness. And Grantaire blinked at him for a moment in surprise. Then he looked down, a somewhat sheepish smile overtaking his reddening face. 

“Yeah, actually… I’d like that.”

And Enjolras turned towards the kitchen area then, unsure of why he thought his face might be turning pink as well, or why every time Grantaire smiled he thought he could hear his heart beating in his ears. Why his hands felt like they were shaking on the mugs when they were completely steady. Why he felt like his skin was sparking in the temperate air of his apartment. 

“How do you take it?” Enjolras found himself asking. The silence wasn’t stifling, it was comfortable, but the air was charged in a way that Enjolras just didn’t understand. Grantaire met his eyes and the charge in the air seemed _worse_ … (Or _better_ … Enjolras couldn’t decide)

“Black,” Grantaire answered. And Enjolras had to turn away. He couldn’t tell if his face was doing something stupid, but he felt it might be. So, he turned back to his cabinets and waited for the coffee to be finished brewing. 

He brought the mugs out several moments later, an unconscious smile on his face. And Grantaire looked from the windows to his face and smiled back. 

“What are you so happy about?” he asked, going for banter. 

But the answer that jumped straight to the forefront of Enjolras’s mind was: _you_. Which reduced the rest of his mind to a writhing mass of confusion. He found himself shrugging and having no way to conceal what he felt was a blush. ( _What the hell is this?_ ) He was still smiling. 

“You okay?” Grantaire asked, looking at him with furrowed brow. And Enjolras nodded, taking a sip of coffee to cover up the fact that he really wasn’t sure anymore. Did head injuries generally make one question his feelings? 

“Do you need your pain killers?” Grantaire asked slowly, putting his coffee down on the table. His expression was some kind of carefully contained worry, but Enjolras couldn’t see that. He really couldn’t see much right now, his world narrowing terribly due to his confusion, the amount of attention he was paying to the whirl of his thoughts. 

“Enjolras?” And suddenly Grantaire was close, in his space. And Enjolras forgot how oxygen worked. “Are you okay?”

And Grantaire was all body heat and pretty eyes and facial features that fit together in a way that most people wouldn’t like, but Enjolras just found _fascinating_. And Enjolras was blinking at him, trying desperately to find words that he would actually consider saying. Because telling Grantaire that him being this close was making him lightheaded didn’t make _any_ sense. 

“Enjolras?” And he felt the air shift from the words, felt Grantaire’s breath ghost across his lips, and found himself leaning forward, pressing his lips against Grantaire's lips. 

And the world seemed to still for a moment, as though there had been a buzzing in his ears that stopped at Grantaire’s kiss. Kisses. Kissing. Holy _fuck_ , they were _kissing_. 

And Enjolras didn’t know what he was doing, but found himself opening his mouth anyway, tangling his fingers in dark curls, snaking his tongue out and licking at the seam of Grantaire’s lips. And it took some coaxing, but suddenly Grantaire was kissing him back, full force, pushing him back into his own couch against his pillows. He reached his other hand up to gently touch at Grantaire’s nape and then – 

And then Enjolras dropped his coffee mug. 

There was coffee everywhere, but not so much anywhere as on Grantaire. He stood up suddenly, stepping back, something in his eyes reminding Enjolras of a cornered animal, his paint-stained shirt now soaked brown. And Enjolras wanted to help him, wanted to do something, but he was frozen, staring. He felt horrified. 

Grantaire met his eyes and even Enjolras couldn't miss the way his face seemed to break, something shattering behind his eyes. 

And Enjolras was not oblivious to the ache in his chest that burned when Grantaire turned tail and ran out of his apartment looking _devastated_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This actually physically pains me. Stupid boys. Enjolras needs to get his feelings in order and Grantaire... I just want to cuddle you and tell you that you're worth it. Because, dammit, you are. And Enjolras... You're worth it too, buddy. And sometimes I wish you'd cool it with the focus, but I'm actually glad you don't. Makes you a fantastic character even if I'm only half-good at writing you. I'm not Victor Hugo, man. I hope I'm doing you justice. 
> 
> Other than that, my lovely readers, seriously - thank you. I'm going to finish this soon, I promise - before next Thursday. And I'm sorry for this angst. I promise you this ends with fluff. 
> 
> Come visit me on tumblr with any questions, comments, or anything. I may take a little while to reply to you, but I definitely read EVERYTHING. And I love you. Have a great evening. :)
> 
> Tumblr: http://ecriture-de-la-fangirl.tumblr.com


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre and Courfeyrac are not seeing each other. And Enjolras has been thoroughly Courf-ed.

Enjolras wasn’t oblivious. He could see that things had gone horribly wrong, but he didn’t know how. And, if he didn’t know _how_ , he couldn’t fix it. And he wanted to fix it so very, very badly. 

Because now he hadn’t seen Grantaire for nearly 3 weeks and what had started with a burning ache when Grantaire had fled his apartment had evolved into something more constant and, he was fearing, permanent. He didn’t understand it – it wasn’t like Grantaire hadn’t gone absent before. But this time was so _different_. This time Enjolras avoided looking at the corner where Grantaire had generally sat. This time Enjolras took a longer route to the Musian, walking thirty minutes instead of ten, to avoid walking down Grantaire’s street. This time Enjolras was so confused and felt so damn sick to his stomach every time he saw anything that reminded him of Grantaire and he just _didn’t get it_. None of this made any fucking sense and he couldn’t logic it out and he was so _confused_. 

And he had no idea how to handle confusion, especially not confusion that threatened to swallow up all of his coherent thought processes. 

And that is the story of how Enjolras ended up at Combeferre’s apartment at 2:38 in the morning, begging for entry in a way that indicated that he didn’t care about his dignity anymore. Combeferre buzzed him in. 

Enjolras didn’t even have the presence of mind to look surprised when he saw Courfeyrac roosting on counter, his red hair sticking up in a thousand and a half different ways. But, he supposed he was glad. Combeferre may have been able to read minds, but Courfeyrac was fantastic with relationships and _humans_. And Enjolras wasn’t completely sure, but he thought that might be what was needed for his present situation. 

“You better have a good reason for interrupting my beauty rest, my blonde revolutionary cupcake,” Courf said groggily. 

“Make some coffee, Courfeyrac,” Combeferre said mildly, his eyes never leaving Enjolras’s face. “This is going to take a while.”

And Enjolras wasn’t sure if he heard Courfeyrac saying, “Thinks just because he fucked me into oblivion last night, he can tell me what to do…” as he heaved himself from the counter   
and stumbled to the coffee machine. He wasn’t sure he cared. 

But, judging by Combeferre’s expression (something between concerned and exasperated, directed at Courfeyrac) it _had_ been _exactly_ what Courfeyrac had said. “It wasn’t an order. If you don’t want coffee, you don’t have to make it. I’m sorry if I made you feel that you had-”

“O, come on, ‘Ferre. I was kidding,” Courfeyrac sighed, looking fondly over his shoulder. “I’m sorry if it was in bad taste, but it’s three in the morning.”

“How long, exactly, have you been seeing each other?” Enjolras asked, groggily, momentarily distracted and feeling somehow as though he had missed something major. Combeferre fixed him with a look. 

“We’re not seeing each other,” he said. 

“We just do this sometimes, help each other out,” Courf finished, the sounds of percolation trickling to life under his clever fingers.

“O,” Enjolras said, still feeling as though he was missing something. Was he always missing something? How long had this been going on? Why hadn’t anybody _told him_?

“You’re having an emotional issue,” Combeferre said suddenly. And Enjolras blinked at him for several seconds, his muddled mind taking time to sort those words out. Then he nodded. 

“O, is it still Grantaire? Because you’ve been off for _weeks_ ,” Courfeyrac said, whipping around and grinning over a steaming cup of coffee. He ignored Enjolras’s standard ‘ _I’m an angry kitten glaring daggers at you_ ’ look and gestured. “Coffee, anyone?”

“Two cups, please,” Combeferre ordered, steering Enjolras to the couch. He sat him down before stepping around him and settling next to him. 

“What’s up?” he said gently. And Enjolras loved him, he really did. But if there was one thing that this whole… _debacle_ had taught him, it was that words failed him right when he needed them most, the little assholes. So, he made a woefully inarticulate sound. Combeferre looked at him sympathetically. 

“That bad, huh?” Courfeyrac said, carrying over two mugs of steaming coffee. He handed them both off before ruffling Enjolras’s hair (which made Enjolras hiss) and perching atop the coffee table. 

“I-it’s not _bad_ , per se,” Enjolras tried, but he was wrecked in a way he didn’t understand. “Omigod, is it bad?” 

Courfeyrac took a breath through his teeth. “Jeez. You-you actually don’t know, do you?” 

Combeferre gave him a sharp look. “No, it’s not _bad_. You’re just overwhelmed.” He reached out, tucked an errant curl behind Enjolras’s ear. “Maybe you should start with what happened? Why he ran off so suddenly?” And Enjolras didn’t question how Combeferre knew that Grantaire had _run off_ … He was Grantaire’s friend too, he knew. But something twinged uncomfortably near his heart when he heard that Grantaire had _talked_ to people, and those people hadn’t been him. (And he knew, on some level, it was nonsensical. But nothing about these past three months had really made any sense to him whatsoever, so he had figuratively just thrown his hands up and decided to let _whatever the hell this was_ run its course.)

But, he pushed all of that aside and told the story: how Grantaire had driven him home from the hospital, how he had made coffee for Grantaire, how he _may_ have ended up kissing Grantaire, how he spilled coffee on Grantaire, was subsequently horrified at how he must have stained or burned him or _something_ , and then how Grantaire had taken one look at him and _run_. 

Courfeyrac made a wounded noise. “You said horrified there, didn’t you? You kissed him, and then you looked horrified, amirite?” 

Enjolras stared at him, trying to translate “ _That is what I just said_ ” into something he could communicate with his eyes. Then he nodded. 

Courfeyrac made an even _more_ wounded noise. “ _Grantaire_ …” he suddenly whined. 

Enjolras looked over at Combeferre. “No, you didn’t break him,” Combeferre said, his tone exasperated. “He’s just being an idiot.”

Enjolras huffed out a breath, feeling as though he was coming to the end of something. Every inch of skin on his body felt tight, as though the past three weeks of exhaustion had stretched it thin over his bones. Bones that ached, marrow-deep, for something he wasn’t even sure of. Something he couldn’t put his finger on. He drew his knees to his chest and leaning until his forehead connected with his kneecaps. 

“What do I do?” he moaned. And he didn’t see how Combeferre’s forehead creased as he looked at him. Nor did he see something like blazing enthusiasm in Courfeyrac’s dark eyes, as his friend rocketed over to his side, perching now on the arm of the couch. 

“What do you want to do?” Courfeyrac’s voice was coaxing, only several shades above a purr. Enjolras pulled his face from between his knees to glare at him. 

“ _I have no idea. That’s why I came here_ ,” he practically shrieked. And then winced. He shot Courf an apologetic look before turning back and knocking his forehead against his knees again. “I-I’m sorry. I just… I don’t think I’ve ever felt this _lost_ before.” Because that was what the ache in his chest was, had been, all this time: loss. Undeniable, aching loss.

The fact that he didn’t even know what exactly it was he was missing made it even worse. 

“O, darling, you have it bad,” Courfeyrac hummed, beginning to gently sift through the hair at Enjolras’s nape. 

“Have _what_ bad?” Enjolras asked, muffled by his knees. And he couldn’t see the look Combeferre and Courfeyrac shared over his head. 

“Enjolras?” Combeferre intoned, seriously. 

“What?” And Enjolras sounded utterly miserable. 

“How do you feel about Grantaire?” he asked. And he heard and saw Enjolras sigh in frustration. 

“I don’t _know_ , Combeferre. That’s why I’m here,” he said. At Combeferre’s furrowed brow, Courfeyrac held up a single finger. 

“How does Grantaire make you feel?” Courfeyrac said. And Enjolras sat up and gave him a fierce look, his eyes burning, burning with familiar fire. Courfeyrac indulged in a small, self-satisfied smile before settling back on his couch arm. 

“I don’t _know_ , Courfeyrac! I don’t know!” he said, impassioned and at a half-shout. “I just know that I – things hurt without him there, you know? _I_ hurt. But when he is there, the world seems to shift and everything seems off-kilter and sometimes I feel like I can’t _breathe_ , but it’s so much worse when he’s not there and I feel like I can’t function, like I can’t think. When he’s around, I feel like my skin is crawling with the need to be near him, to touch him, to…talk to him…. And when he’s not around… I don’t know. There’s no one-no one to _argue_ with, even if he's always insufferably stupid with his _obnoxiously_ well thought-out points. Because no one is _like_ him, not in that respect. Not in the way where he’s so _incredibly_ smart and using so much of his intelligence just to make my points better by arguing every counterargument under the sun and stars… And… I miss him… The way he smells, like, I dunno, leather, cigarette smoke, wine, and something – I just don’t… I miss how he looks when he argues and how he smiles when he’s not… I just… I miss him and…”

And the fire was rapidly cooling in Enjolras’s eyes as his hands gripped so hard at his ankles that his knuckles turned bone white. “O.” It was like the sound was punched out of him, almost on a sigh. “O, no…” His eyes were wide, staring straight ahead. “O, _fuck_.”

And Enjolras was on his feet. And then, within moments, he was through the apartment door, darting out onto the street without so much as a good-bye. 

Combeferre stared after him, wide-eyed and blank-stared. “What did you do to him?” he asked. And Courf raised a single eyebrow in his friend’s direction.

“He has just been Courf-ed,” he answered, not very helpfully, sliding down into Enjolras’s vacated seat. 

“Did… Did you just use some kind of fucked up _logic_ to get Enjolras to come to terms with Enjolras’s _feelings_?” And Combeferre sounded so astounded that Courfeyrac was almost offended. 

“Dude, you know I’m a genius. Why does this surprise you?” Courfeyrac asked, just a bit petulantly. And Combeferre just surged forward and kissed him. 

“Go, please, to the bedroom. Right now,” he said, almost breathless. “I think – I need to have sex with you. Yep. Uh, right now.” 

And Courfeyrac had no objections. 

Meanwhile, Enjolras was running…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excuse me for my self-indulgent Combeferre/Courfeyrac, but I have recently become acquainted with the fact that I ship nearly all the things. 
> 
> And Enjolras, baby, _run_. It may be nearly 5 in the morning, but I'm almost sure that R isn't sleeping too well at the moment. So get your skinny blonde ass over there. 
> 
> And come talk to me on tumblr or in the comments or whatever. Response to this has been overwhelmingly wonderful and I really, really love you all. You're fantastic. Thank you for everything and I will see you soon for Chapter 5!! :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras makes it. And discovers something _major_.

Enjolras had no idea what he was doing, but he was doing it anyway. It was completely out of character, but he was being completely spontaneous and this was _scary_. But, dammit, he needed to see Grantaire. He needed to see him very, _very_ badly. And, at this time, he was almost completely sure why. 

So, even though it was five in the morning, he was forgoing all common sense and sprinting through Paris like the good of the people depended on it. And it may have been dark, but there was a faint line of light on the eastern horizon, and it may have been somewhat cold, but he couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel anything except for some kind of blind determination. And that was when he burst through Grantaire’s door. 

He didn’t even spare a thought to how Grantaire’s door was _unlocked_ as he barged in, noting the mussed bed, the dirty dishes in the sink, the broken mug on the floor near the bedside table. He just knew he couldn’t spot Grantaire and Enjolras looked around wildly, noting the open bathroom door, the darkness beyond…and the closed door across from it.

And he stepped forward rapidly and gripped the doorknob and _turned_ …

His eyes were accosted with artificial light, bright and excluding all else, as the smells washed over him: of paint and canvas and paper and acetone and…wine.

It was a studio. 

And there was Grantaire in the center, staring at him, wide-eyed and disbelieving, surrounded by red and gold and black and white and gray and one face over and over and over and over. And Enjolras stared, stared at the face that surrounded him, every half-finished rendering and realized, down to the marrow in his bones, that he had been so fucking oblivious for a very long time. 

Because the face he was staring at was impeccable, flawless, with sharp cheekbones and full lips and skin that seemed to glow and eyelashes that went on forever. One of the most beautiful faces he had ever seen. And somewhere in his soul, he recognized that it was _his_ face. 

It felt like Paris was collapsing around him. 

And he had been so fucking oblivious for so fucking long and _this_ , this was what it felt like to be punched in the heart. This is what it felt like to forget how to breathe. This is what it felt like to never want to leave someone again. 

_Grantaire_ he wanted to whisper, in awe. Because, really, this is what it had all been about, right? Enjolras falling deeply, _terrifyingly_ in love with Grantaire. 

He took another step into the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter is short, I apologize. But I wanted this to be clipped so that the next chapter is the fluffiest work I have ever attempted to make fluffy. :)
> 
> And _guys_....he made it!!! Enjolras made it and, God, are you happy for him - because I am. (And I'm ecstatic for Grantaire, even if he is all kinds of in the dark about the situation.)
> 
> And, seriously, guys. I love you. I love you all so much. :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Confrontation. Where they learn things about each other. And then make out.

Grantaire was suddenly at his side. “Who the fuck do you think you are? You can’t just barge into my apartment, my _studio_ like this –”

He sounded outraged. Enjolras didn’t care. 

“They’re beautiful,” he whispered, effectively stopping Grantaire’s rant in its tracks. 

“What?” Grantaire breathed. His eyes were wide on Enjolras’s face, but Enjolras wasn’t looking at him. 

“They’re the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen,” he whispered, in awe. 

“They’re shit, actually,” Grantaire tried to say, but then Enjolras’s fingers stilled his lips. 

“They’re brilliant,” he said. “You’re brilliant. And I’m a fucking idiot. And these are incredible and I can’t stop thinking about you and I came over here at five in the morning because I   
couldn’t stand not seeing you anymore.” And then he finally turned, looked at Grantaire, who was staring at him with wide eyes. 

“I think I’m in love with you,” he said it bluntly. Grantaire looked vaguely as though he had punched him. “I think I’m in love with you and I think I have been for… a while.”

He pulled his hand away from Grantaire’s mouth, watching as Grantaire’s eyes turned somewhat glassy. “You… You _think_? W-what the fuck does that mean?” 

“That… I missed you. Not seeing you…” He took a breath. He needed a breath. “That look on your face, the day of the rally,” he knew he was grasping, and Grantaire was looking at him like he was insane and a dream all at once, but this was the first way that he thought of to get his point across and he was _running with it_. “I’m not sure you realized I saw you, but I did – the moment before I was hit. And you… You had the most _terrified_ look on your face. Like you were going to lose _everything_. And that’s what it felt like, being away from you.” 

Enjolras stopped then, clearing his throat, suddenly awkward. “Does that make any sense?” 

And Grantaire was just watching him, eyes wide. Enjolras reached up and wiped a tear from his cheek. “O, you’re crying,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

“ _Jesus Christ_ ,” Grantaire said suddenly, causing Enjolras to jolt, just a bit. “Don’t-don’t fucking apologize, Enjolras.” 

“But, you… You’re crying,” Enjolras said quietly. And Grantaire shook his head, pressing his lips together. He tentatively reached out, taking Enjolras’s hand in his, folding their fingers together. 

“That’s not your fault,” he said quietly. “I just… You missed me?” 

“Yes,” Enjolras replied. There was a small smile on Grantaire’s face now, and Enjolras felt unsteady as he gripped Grantaire’s hand tighter. “I really, _really_ did.”

“H- _how_?” Grantaire asked. And Enjolras’s fingers were on his lips again, stilling them. 

“You ask awful questions,” Enjolras said, blunt once more. When Grantaire’s face fell, he wanted to kick himself. “That’s – I didn’t mean that to be _offensive_. I just… I don’t know how you don’t understand. How could I miss you? I don’t really know, I just did. Being away from you hurt, like being punched in the heart… Or bludgeoned in the head. And, trust me, I know how that feels.” 

Grantaire gave him a look that clearly said something along the lines of ‘ _You really just said that_.’ To which Enjolras replied with a look that said ‘ _Yes, yes I did_.’ And then Grantaire yielded a half-smile and Enjolras felt like he was lighting up from the inside. But then Grantaire’s face fell again. Enjolras’s breath caught. 

“You… I just – the way you looked,” he tried to explain. Then he paused. Enjolras watched intently, tracing the most minute facial movements with his eyes, trying to divine what was going on beneath them. He wanted to know what Grantaire was thinking. He wanted to know _everything_. He was suddenly voracious for knowledge and he felt a little like he was glowing. He wanted Grantaire to feel that way too. “You kissed me. In your apartment. And then you looked _horrified_ …”

“Not at you!” Enjolras said quickly. His grip on Grantaire’s fingers tightened. “No, not at you. I spilled hot coffee on you.” Grantaire raised an eyebrow, disbelieving. “I was worried you may have been burned, and clearly I had stained your shirt and-and… You don’t believe me?” He saw it in Grantaire’s face, saw how deeply this vein of disbelief went. Saw how desperately Grantaire was trying not to hope, not to think that this was real, that something like this could really happen. And Enjolras didn’t understand, but brought his free hand up anyway, tracing the contours of the right side of Grantaire’s face, feeling the roughness of his stubble, the bumps and lines of old scars, acne or other… And then he was leaning forward, of his own accord, and kissing Grantaire. 

And it was better this time, if only because he now understood why he wanted it so desperately. Grantaire’s lips were chapped and he kissed back like he meant it. And it wasn’t a graceful thing, it was fumbling and their teeth may have clacked together more than once, but Enjolras was in love with it. With this feeling. With everything. And Grantaire’s hair was surprisingly soft where he tangled his fingers in it. And _Grantaire_. There was this ballooning feeling in his chest and he just… He was in love. 

“You’re really…” Grantaire started, then stopped. “That was nice.” 

Enjolras hummed in agreement. Grantaire looked up at him then. 

“You think you’re in love with me,” he stated. And Enjolras nodded. 

“You… You paint _me_ ,” he replied. Grantaire dropped his eyes in an instant, seemed in danger of dropping his hand, before Enjolras tightened his grip, leaned forward again and kissed him chastely. 

“I’ve painted you for years,” Grantaire murmured, still not truly meeting Enjolras’s eyes. “Sketched you for longer.” 

Enjolras’s nose wrinkled with his smile, “Why?”

Grantaire gave him a rueful look before breathing out. “Because… I dunno. The moment I saw you, the world changed. I was trying to find a way to…get that across.” 

At that, Enjolras took another look around, evaluating each picture. They were all fucking gorgeous, and he had had no idea that Grantaire was this talented, but not a single one of them was finished. One towards the back was slashed in half, canvas ruined. Several against the wall were marked with cigarette burns. And something in Enjolras’s chest hurt. 

“You don’t… Why do you…” he didn’t know how to verbalize it without saying something wrong. Grantaire understood anyway. 

“They never compared to the real thing,” he said, and Enjolras was afraid of what he heard in his tone. He turned back to him, his worry showing, and Grantaire just shook his head.   
“Don’t…pity me, Enjolras.”

“I’m not…” he replied lowly. “I just… I love you, okay?” And Grantaire closed his eyes. “And I think these are fantastic.”

“How much do you know about art?” Grantaire said, raising an eyebrow. 

“A bit,” Enjolras muttered. “How many other people have you shown?” 

“No one. I technically didn’t even show you,” Grantaire replied. 

“Maybe you should. Show people, I mean.”

“Maybe I should.”

And then they were quiet again, before Grantaire squeezed Enjolras’s hand. 

“You… You came here at five in the morning,” he said, his voice suddenly ragged. Enjolras brought his free hand up again, fingers curling gently at the juncture of Grantaire’s neck and shoulder. “You _ran_ here at five in the morning…to tell me you loved me.”

Enjolras nodded, fervently. He saw the question in Grantaire’s eyes and almost tripped over his words to answer it. “I-I just figured it out. This morning. At Combeferre’s.”

“ _Why_?” he asked, seemed to be unable to _not_ ask. Enjolras blinked at him. 

“There’s actually a bunch of reasons. Do you want a list?” he asked. And the sadness in Grantaire’s expression seemed to evaporate in the wake of his surprise. 

“You’re serious?” he asked. And Enjolras nodded. 

“This is fucking surreal, you have no idea,” Grantaire muttered. And Enjolras just watched his face. 

"A bit," he murmured, smiling gently. He brought their entwined hands up and kissed Grantaire's knuckles, enjoying the splotchy blush as it started on Grantaire's face.

“You think you love me,” he said, a bit hoarsely. And Enjolras shrugged. Grantaire’s eyes shot to his face, suddenly fearful. 

“I thought that before I got here… Now I know,” he said quietly. And Grantaire seemed breathless for a moment. 

“I…love you too,” he replied a moment later. And Enjolras didn’t care how stupid his smile looked, he grinned like nothing else. Because this was the confirmation he had craved, the confirmation of every suspicion he had drummed up since entering Grantaire’s studio. He loved Grantaire, Grantaire loved him. 

He actually fucking giggled. “You love me.” 

And Grantaire really smiled, a happy smile that transformed his face and made Enjolras’s chest flutter, just a bit. “I love you,” he repeated. “You love me.”

“I love you,” Enjolras answered. And for a moment, they just stood there, smiling at each other like idiots. And then they were kissing again, kissing like it was the last thing they would ever do, the last thing they ever wanted to do, grasping at each other slightly desperately. 

And suddenly, Enjolras pulled back with a breathless laugh. “Do you know what’s funny?” he said.

“What?” Grantaire asked, looking at him with wide eyes. 

“You know how… When I speak at meetings, and you sit there and counteract everything I say?” he asked. And Grantaire’s brow furrowed as he nodded. “That is honestly one of my favorite things. Please don’t ever stop.” 

And Grantaire smiled, looking only slightly perplexed. “You’re weird.” 

Enjolras scoffed. “I am _not_. It’s simply that, in those moments you exhibit extraordinary eloquence and intelligence and it’s really brilliant to watch. And I’m not saying you’re not annoying – because, yes, you are. But it’s a good annoying.”

“A good annoying…” Grantaire muttered, looking at once at war and at peace.

Enjolras smiled in return. “I mean, you argue _everything_ with me. But I’ve begun looking at it as preparation. For when I have to convince someone who’s _almost_ as stubborn as you.”

“Almost,” Grantaire smiled. 

“Almost,” Enjolras confirmed. And then he took Grantaire’s face in his hands and kissed him. Because he wanted to. Because it felt good. Because this was as easy as breathing, honestly, and he was glad that there was one part of their relationship that was easy. And Grantaire wrapped his arms around Enjolras’s waist and pulled them flush together, his hands flat against the small of Enjolras’s back. 

And it was still slightly clumsy, but Enjolras didn’t really notice, didn’t really care. Because he wasn’t oblivious anymore and this…it felt wonderful. He felt wonderful. 

And he would have had to be oblivious to think that it was going to be smooth sailing from here on out. He knew that there were going to be plenty of things to deal with. He just hoped they got to deal with them _together_. Because when he thought about that, he got this fuzzy feeling in his chest, warm down to his toes. Because he was in love with Grantaire. And Grantaire was in love with him. And it was weird at first, but wonderful. Really, really fucking wonderful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then they eventually get married. And their friends end up with kids, which satisfy their paternal instincts. (And that's more Grantaire than Enjolras, Enjolras doesn't want kids. Grantaire wouldn't mind, but he thinks he's gonna fuck up royally if he ever has any of his own. That's okay though. Combeferre and Courfeyrac eventually end up together as well and adopt a set of twins (because really, Combeferre was that dude who was born to be a dad, and Courfeyrac would go all squishy over kids, let me tell you), a boy and a girl. And the girl just really likes to paint and read and writes essays in grade school about how she wants to be like her Uncle R, to which Grantaire is like 'No, sweetie, you really don't, but I am really, really flattered.' But, she doesn't know about the alcohol, and the doubting, because she met him after he managed to get sober (she never sees him relapse; it happens, but Enjolras and their other friends don't let the kids see it) and everything she knows about him is gorgeous paintings, loving Enjolras, teaching her about all these fantastic Greek dudes, quoting poetry at her. And that's what she loves. And Courfeyrac massively bemoans the fact that she writes about 'Uncle R' and not him, (especially because his son writes about Combeferre) but he likes it. Especially because he's the one who gets the Father's Day presents. Courfeyrac likes Father's Day.) And they love each other forever. And sing on barricades in heaven together or something. 
> 
> And this has been headcanons with ecrituredelafangirl. I'm here all week. Month. Whenever. :)
> 
> And thank you guys for all of your awesome feedback, bookmarking, and kudosing as this went on. You guys are beautiful and I love you so, so, so much!! :D
> 
> Come visit me on tumblr, if you like: http://ecriture-de-la-fangirl.tumblr.com 
> 
> :D :D :D

**Author's Note:**

> And they will argue into the night over society's perception of beauty and the things about it that frustrate them. They may even fall asleep in the midst of this discussion and wake up all tangled together and whatnot. :)
> 
> All right. I hope you enjoyed this. Any questions/comments go below or to my tumblr address: http://ecriture-de-la-fangirl.tumblr.com
> 
> And I hope you have a wonderful evening!! :)


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